


you said yes as i said please

by childhoodinfamy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, M/M, One-armed Bucky Barnes, there is sex and paint you stand fully warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childhoodinfamy/pseuds/childhoodinfamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i will love with urgency but not with haste; or, it’s a quiet day in bucky’s dorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you said yes as i said please

**Author's Note:**

> when will i stop titling my fics with song lyrics? never. when will i stop making bucky barnes have one arm in my fics? quite literally never.  
> this was a valentine for sarah (captainasexual over at tumblr. i still don't know how to link things on this website if i'm being honest) because i like sarah a lot. it's a tiny scene from a huge au that we came up with a while ago that we love.

Bucky’s dorm room, roommate-less and on the highest floor, is cleaner than Steve’s. His desk is organized, each loose paper tucked into individual folders labeled by class, set in order of importance on his shelf. He’s attached a large white calendar to the wall; days passed are marked off in whatever marker is nearest, big events lazily, hastily written in the squares.

(Steve’s room used to be messy, full of art supplies and yesterday’s socks. Now, his half of the room he shares with Sam is mostly empty. He’s not there too often.)

It was a perfectly productive room, except for on movie nights, until Steve started slowly moving in, a trickle of Steve’s presence that started on their second date, when Steve had come over to watch a movie.

Now, months later, there’s a box under Bucky’s bed, full with Steve’s art supplies, and there are sketches laying on the clean surfaces. Bucky finds stray socks sandwiched between the sheets, some nights, when Steve kicks them off in his sleep. There are tiny hints of Steve, spread everywhere, touching everything.

And then there is Steve himself.

He’s sitting, in pajama pants and a t-shirt, on the ground when Bucky looks over; tubes of paint are spread to his left, a palette of mixed shades to his right. Splatters of paint cover his hands and forearms, his eyebrows are drawn in close and he’s breathing periodically and loudly through his nose—puffs of air that show his mounting irritation.

Bucky’s been done with his readings for over an hour now; he’s now working on menial research for a paper that isn’t due for weeks. He figures it’s about time for a break.

“Hey,” he starts, and he doesn’t have to say anything more—that one word has given permission to the litany of frustration that Steve has been holding back.

“I can’t get the shading,” he grumbles. “The shadows keep turning out wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Bucky extricates himself from his chair to sit next to Steve on the floor, the tarp wrinkling beneath his bare feet. “Why don’t you take a break?”

“And do what?”

“Sketch. Sleep, maybe,” Bucky suggests.

“I have to paint. I need to practice.” Steve says with a groan. He sets his brush down and runs his hands through his hair, leaving small flecks of blue where his fingers have raked through the blond.

“Paint something fun, at least,” Bucky says. He gestures to the canvas that Steve has been working on. “Can I?”

“Sure,” Steve concedes. Bucky picks it up and sets it carefully on top of the dresser to dry. Steve can come back to it in the morning. “I can’t waste my good paints, though,” Steve says to Bucky’s back. “I’d have to use the old ones.”

“So use the old ones,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t have any extra canvases. I need to go to the art store tomorrow.”

Bucky considers this problem for a second before clamping his teeth down on the hem of his shirt sleeve, tugging as he pulls his arm into the torso. From there, he hooks the arm under the waist of the shirt and lifts it past his chest and over his head; he throws it to the side.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. “Not that I don’t want to, but—“

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Stand up. Not everything is about sex, Steven,” he says in a falsely admonishing tone, as though he himself hadn’t suggested it twice that night already.

Steve stands up slowly, giving Bucky a confused look. Once he’s off the tarp, Bucky carefully tucks the paint tubes back into Steve’s box, grabbing the older, lower quality ones while he’s at it. He hands these to Steve with a smirk. He sets the palette, which is mostly empty by now, to the side of the canvas Steve had been working on. Finally, he takes the tarp—mostly clean but for a few stray, dried smears of paint—and tosses it over his sheets. He pulls the corners straight, makes sure the cloth tarp is tucked over anything that could get messy, uses his toes to tap Steve’s art supply box back under the bed, and then crawls on top of the mattress. He leans back on his elbow and looks at Steve.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks again, in the same tone he did a minute prior.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Bucky asks.

“It looks like you’re laying on a tarp,” Steve says, narrowing his eyes.

“Wow,” Bucky says, voice flat. “Okay, Nancy Drew, you got me.”

“But,” Steve starts. “Why?”

At this, Bucky grins. “Why, Steve, I’m so glad you asked. You said you don’t have any canvases, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. He draws the letters out until Bucky interrupts him.

“Well, luckily for you, I am currently wearing no shirt and have plenty of skin on my back and I really like you. So. Have at it, Steve.”

“You want me to paint your back?”

“That was the idea behind the no-shirt, tarp-on-the-bed thing, yeah.”

Steve seems to consider it for a second before shrugging and nodding. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Okay!” Bucky repeats, excitedly. As Steve picks a brush from the cup on Bucky’s desk and grabs a new palette, Bucky flips over onto his stomach and gathers a pillow. He tucks it under his head and tucks his arm underneath. Steve hefts himself onto the tall bed frame, settling himself high on Bucky’s thighs, his knees on either side of Bucky’s hips.

“This isn’t going to be boring for you?” Steve asks. Bucky can hear him opening the paint.

“I have my boyfriend straddling my ass, I’d hardly call that boring,” Bucky points out.

Steve just laughs. “Fair enough.”

“In fact, I’d argue I’m getting the better end of this deal. Is this going to be too boring for _you_?” Bucky asks.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Steve says.

“Oh you wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t.” Bucky can hear the smile in his voice, almost, the innocent-but-intrigued voice Steve has down to a science.

“What would you say?”

“I’d say shut up,” Steve chuckles. “You ready?”

“Been ready, pal.”

Steve shifts, then, scooting a little higher, and Bucky wonders if that was supposed to be his comeback to Bucky’s smart mouth. If it was, it was a damn good one.

And then Steve is setting the brush against Bucky’s skin, pausing just an instant before it’s moving and Bucky’s fingers are gripping into his pillow.

” _Shit_ ,” he mutters.

“You okay?” Steve asks, real concern lacing his voice.

“Yeah, just.” Bucky laughs. “A little cold.”

“Do you need me to stop?” Steve asks, and Bucky can feel Steve leaning back slightly, settling on his heels while he waits for Bucky’s answer.

“No, I’m good,” Bucky assures him. “I’ll tell you if I do,” he promises, because he knows that’s going to be Steve’s next question.

“Promise?”

“Promise. Get painting, Michelangelo.”

“Now you’re comparing yourself to the Sistine Chapel?”

“Just paint me, punk.”

And at that, Steve settles his brush on the small patch of skin between Bucky’s neck and right shoulder, where he knows Bucky is sensitive. It sends goosebumps up Bucky’s arm, leaving a catch in his breath.

He’s not sure what Steve is painting, and he’s not sure he cares. He’d been planning on grabbing his book, which rests on his desk about a foot away from his bent elbow; he was going to get ahead on his readings while Steve got his fill of mindless practice. He hadn’t been expecting how distracting this was going to be.

Steve’s breathing is even now, not frustrated and ragged the way it had been ten minutes ago. Bucky listens to it, lets it loosen his muscles as Steve slides the paintbrush down his spine.

Bucky bends his arm a bit further so he can hook his hand, a bit awkwardly, over his left shoulder. Steve entwines the fingers of his left hand with Bucky's right, leaving his painting hand open to continue its work on Bucky’s back.

They’re silent as Steve does this, still and simple and quiet in a way that lightens Bucky from the inside out. It’s not until the sun starts slanting low into the room, eventually disappearing past the horizon of his windowsill, that Steve’s hand starts to slow.

Minutes later, as the final hints of orange light fade to the pink-purple of dusk, Bucky feels Steve shift, slightly, and swing himself off the bed. Bucky doesn’t move as he hears Steve at the sink, washing the excess paint from the brush, setting it on the desk. He doesn’t move as he feels Steve crawling back onto the bed, back to the exact spot he was in before.

“You paint a masterpiece back there?” Bucky asks, only slightly teasingly.

“No,” Steve laughs.

“Take a picture on my phone,” Bucky says. Still unmoved, he stretches his arm and gropes on his desk until his fingers close around his cellphone. He stretches his arm backwards to hand it to Steve. “I want to see it later.”

“Why don’t you look in the mirror?” Steve suggests, but Bucky can hear the shutter noise of the camera snapping a picture. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

Bucky doesn’t address Steve’s questions. “You got the picture?”

“Yeah, I took a few,” Steve says.

“Perfect. Can I turn over, or are you saving this?” Bucky asks.

“You can turn over.” Steve shifts to the side to give Bucky more room to move.

And so Bucky does. The paint, most of it still wet, feels slick beneath him as he finds a comfortable position and looks up at Steve..

“Hi,” he says. He smiles. He slides a hand around the back of Steve’s neck, pulls him down. “Take off your shirt,” he says, simply.

Steve rolls his eyes but quickly shucks the shirt over his head. Bucky pulls him back down again, close enough for their noses to touch.

“Hi,” he repeats, this time against Steve’s lips.

“You’re so weird,” Steve responds, the last word cut almost short by Bucky’s kiss.

He can feel the paint transferring to the drop cloth beneath them, but Bucky figures that’s what it’s there for. He thinks about what the tarp will look like afterwards, a slightly-smeared imprint in the exact shape of his back, and he laughs a little against Steve’s lips (his hand tangling in the hair at the base of Steve’s skull, his hips rocking up against Steve’s, his toes curling into the sheets).

“What?” Steve asks.

“You’re never going to be able to use this drop cloth in public again,” Bucky says.

“And that’s my fault?”

“I certainly didn’t see you complaining.”

Steve rolls his eyes, one hand going to Bucky’s back and lifting him far enough from the mattress that he can slide the boxers from his hips. They catch at Bucky’s calves, and Bucky kicks them the rest of the way off while he tugs at Steve’s own pants. Once they’re off, Steve nudges Bucky’s legs apart wide enough that Steve can fit in the space. He keeps his hand on Bucky’s back, their bodies pressed flush against each other, and returns to their kiss for a moment before sliding down Bucky’s body, his lips leaving a trail of kisses down Bucky’s chest before he settles between Bucky’s legs.

Bucky chances a glance down at Steve and feels his breath skip when he finds Steve staring back up. His eyes ask a silent question, and Bucky answers with a short nod and his hand coming to rest in Steve’s hair once again. Steve’s hand slides from Bucky’s back to the side of his thigh, and Bucky can feel the paint leaving finger smears on his skin. He gasps in a sharp breath and tightens his fingers as Steve’s lips close around him; his head falls back against the pillow. He fights against the arching of his back, the thrusting of his hips, the moans that want to escape his throat.

Bucky bites his lip as Steve moves, slowly, his fingers gentle on Bucky’s side. It’s not long before Bucky’s tightening his grip in Steve’s hair, a warning coupled with a strangled _“Steve_ ,” that tells Steve everything he needs to know. Steve taps a finger twice against the side of Bucky’s thigh, a silent signal of assent before Bucky falls apart, his breaths turning ragged and his muscles going limp as Steve’s mouth eventually moves to ghost on the inside of Bucky’s thigh, up his chest, and to his lips, where Bucky pulls him in to deepen the kiss before muttering, “Wow,” and readjusting his and Steve’s bodies until Bucky’s knees are straddling Steve’s hips; Steve’s hands land low on Bucky’s back as Bucky leans back down.

Bucky puts his weight on his knees so he can work a mark into Steve’s collarbone, and his hand drifts down to spread his fingers on the bottom of Steve’s abdomen.

“Okay?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Steve answers. Voice cracked and low.

And Bucky wraps his hand around Steve, pausing for a moment before falling into a rhythm. When Steve gasps, the smallest of noises, it’s close to Bucky’s ear, and in return, Bucky lets the flat of his tongue slide against the bruise he’s been sucking into Steve’s collarbone. He shifts his attention to the dusting of freckles on Steve’s shoulder, where he presses open-mouthed kisses, his teeth dragging gently, tauntingly.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Bucky murmurs, the words muffled by Steve’s skin.

Steve’s hips lift up from the mattress at that, his right hand moving from Bucky’s back to brace himself against the wall, as though he’s trying to keep himself still, though Bucky can see Steve’s muscles shaking with the effort.

Bucky leans forward to meet Steve’s lips again, swallowing Steve’s gasp as his wrist twists and Steve falls over the edge.

When it passes, Steve lays, limp and unmovable on the mattress, hair sticking slightly to his forehead with sweat. His breaths wheeze, and there is a faint, sleepy smile on his lips. Bucky, wide awake, gets up to wash his hand and get a washcloth for Steve’s stomach.

After, he crawls back on top of Steve, settling his weight lightly on Steve’s chest, which is rising and falling with less of a rattle now.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers.

“Mmm,” Steve responds. He’s mostly asleep now, which doesn’t come as a surprise to Bucky anymore.

“Guess what?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“I love you, I think.”

“You think?” Steve slurs, an eyebrow raising lazily.

“I guess,” Bucky says with a quiet smile. “You’re mostly all right.” He shifts from Steve’s chest to his side and prods Steve until he, too, rolls over.

Bucky curls his front around Steve’s back, interlocking curves, Bucky’s bare toes tucking between Steve’s still-socked feet for warmth.

“I love you too,” Steve mumbles.

They fall asleep in a pile of still-sweaty limbs, Bucky’s smile pressed into the curve of Steve’s shoulder exactly where he’d kissed ten minutes earlier.

-

When they wake up in the morning, the first thing they see is the imprint of Steve’s hand, left with the paint from Bucky’s back, on the wall where he braced it the night before.

 “I’ll pay the fee in June,” Steve says.

Bucky smirks. “You want to explain to them how it got there, too?”

“I think I’ll leave that to you.”

“Chickening out, Rogers?”

“No, but this whole thing _was_ your idea.”

“I certainly didn’t see you complaining,” Bucky says, the same way he did last night. He pulls Steve close under the sheets. “Now,” he adds. “I need to wash this paint off of my back. You gonna help me or what?”


End file.
